


and things got real bohemian

by bettergettheserioustoothpaste



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, RvB Big Bang, Sex Pollen, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex, cis male character too but that's not a tag i guess, simmons has a robot dick too so jot that one down, sort of???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 23:31:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12804774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettergettheserioustoothpaste/pseuds/bettergettheserioustoothpaste
Summary: "Oh, they're just upset because they got locked in a storage closet for the entire thing.""The subject!Changeit!"Or; The heat gets to Simmons, Grif goes to look for him, they have multiple different kinds of long-needed conversation, and Donut and Caboose do irresponsible things with their time and money.





	and things got real bohemian

**Author's Note:**

> so! this was my prompt for this year's RVB Reverse Big Bang! uwu the prompt was grif and simmons having some alone time and accidentally overhearing each other, haha. picture supplied by the lovely http://simmonss.tumblr.com !

It really should not be so hot in here.

Simmons generally prides himself on being very… exact, about things. Maybe a little picky. It’s not as much _critical_ , there’s no deliberate attempt at nitpicking for the sake of being an asshole; Simmons _is_ an asshole, of course, at the best of times, but that could probably be attributed more to a fondness for snarking at people at inopportune moments. He’s not any less immune to it than the rest of Red Team are. It’s the metaphorical hate glue that holds them together, or something.  
  
(Or it would be, if that wasn’t a _ridiculous_ metaphor.)  
  
But no, Simmons likes things a certain way, thank you. Certain orders for things. Certain daily routines. Certain internal body temperatures. Not that he’s ever particularly _worried_ about his internal body temperature, unless it’s extreme enough to be a problem…. though he’s pretty sure this counts as extreme enough to be a problem.

He’s _boiling_ in here and if he doesn’t take off his suit _soon_ he is literally going to die and melt into a small puddle in the middle of the floor, and _that_ would not be beneficial to anybody.

It would probably be a _far better_ idea, then, if he did not, in fact, do that, and instead ducked into the first little side room he sees, locks the door with concerningly shaky fingers (he doesn’t really want anyone stumbling in on him like this, okay) and it’s with a quiet yet concerning popping noise that he pulls his helmet off, discards it, literally just drops it on the floor without a second thought. Careful, Simmons. That’s expensive equipment. He’s not particularly concerned with that right now, though. He’s far more invested in getting the rest of his suit off, too, right now, immediately, because this whole place feels like it’s cooking him from the outside in, and… you know. That’s not very comfortable.  
  
Fucking Temple of Procreation, he thinks. He doesn’t even know why he’s _here_ . What could they possibly gain from this? If it hadn’t been for Tucker stumbling across the damn thing and activating it, none of this would be happening, and he would be at _home_ , right now, doing better and more useful things than just sitting here sweating his ass off. His armour is essentially acting as a makeshift pie tin, and he is the unfortunate filling, and he really just needed to get out of all this metal as soon as possible, thanks.

The heat does seem to be a little more tolerable, though, now that he _is_ , and he’s reduced now to just boxers and an undershirt, and Simmons sits himself against the nearest wall, takes a few deep breaths. Did he bring any water or anything with him? He’s sure he did. His armour has a lot of extra compartments for keeping emergency stuff in, and this is one of those moments where Simmons could really, really do with Emergency Stuff.

So with his free hand, he pulls one of the spare compartments open, pulls out a water bottle, and jams it in gently between his knees, for grip, to undo the lid, take a sip, and-- wait, what. Why free hand. What’s the other hand doing.

Simmons pauses, for a second, mid drink, and comes to the horrifying conclusion that his other hand has somehow subconsciously _gravitated_ to between his legs, and is now pushing at the definite and slightly worrying bulge in his boxers in a _very_ insistent way.

Oh, _god_.

Okay, calm down, Simmons. There has to be a good explanation for this, surely. He pauses, lets his hand come to a stop, and mulls this over. Maybe it’s the heat. Or maybe he didn’t put his suit on properly, and there was some unfortunate chafing, or something. Either way, he’s pretty sure masturbating in a temple is offensive, and he doesn’t really have _time_. He really does need to get back to the rest of the group. They might be worried about him.

( _Are they?_ asks a voice in the back of his head, though. A subconscious thought. _Are they really?_ )

(But he doesn’t really want to think about that, right now.)

The sensible thing for Simmons to do, then, here, would be to put his suit back on, tuck himself back into his armoured codpiece, and go home, and if really necessary, masturbate _there_ . Of all the places he could be doing this, right now, he has a slight feeling that this is perhaps one of the least advisable. (Come on, Richard. You’re at _work_ , he reasons. You got _shit to do_ . You really cannot give yourself a quickie in a back room in a fucking _religious_ (or cultural) establishment. That’s probably not very polite.)

But he’s kind of feeling the burn already, from the loss of contact (not even a loss of contact, a loss of movement) and the idea of just putting his clothes back on and _leaving_ , to traipse around for a couple hours…. It’s painful to think about. He absolutely cannot, even as a hypothetical, stand the idea. He feels like it would actually physically kill him. (Or, worse, it would get to him while he was in front of people, which is probably not advisable, and there are very few members of the team that he would feel comfortable masturbating in front of.)

(And that means none! _None_! Nobody at all! Nobody that Simmons really really wants to just bend him over the nearest table and dick him down until his legs don’t wo wait what.)

Alright, fuck it. Now he’s thinking about _that_ and he’s distracted, so he might as well get this over with so it doesn’t keep bothering him.

So it’s with that rationale, and a hesitant look over to the very locked door (but still., he’s not _certain_ ,) that Simmons gives in, leans back against the wall, and, in a way far more decisive than he usually does it, sticks his hands down his pants.

Okay, that feels good. He’s not going to lie. Really fucking good, in fact. Simmons bites his lip, attempts to keep the noise down, and starts to actually _move_ his hand, this time. Keeping his hand still is all well and good, but he needs more, god damn it. He needs friction, of some kind, and he needs to… it’s sort of burning, almost, on the inside, and it almost feels _exposed_ , and the only way he can alleviate that is to touch, to move, to do _something,_ so he does, and he doesn’t think much of it.  
  
“Mh--!” He’s going to have to watch _that_ , though. He doesn’t want anyone to hear him.

(His mind finds a way to twist that, of course. It brings him debatably unwelcome mental images of what would happen if someone _did_ find him like this. A _certain_ someone. Raising his eyebrows, probably eating something like a sandwich or a pastry or whatever. Folds the bag over, wipes the excess crumbs from his face, asks Simmons what could have _possibly_ got him so worked up in _public_ like this. Like he has no shame. Like he was _planning_ this, _waiting_ for this to happen, and maybe-- moving over, here, pulling Simmons up from under his arms, pinning him against the wall by his shoulders-- _maybe_ Simmons had been planning for this to happen, all along, and if he _had_ , then someone should _do something about it._ )

“Grif--”  
  
He hadn’t meant to be that loud, but…. More fool him, he supposes.

Simmons isn’t really worrying about that right now, though, and honestly? He’s a little less concerned with his image with each passing moment, because _something_ in him is compelling him to keep going, is heating him up and clouding his brain and kind of leaving him unable to focus on anything but _this,_ and _this_ is certainly very distracting. So he’s left sort of leaning against the wall, at this point, hurriedly pulling off his boxers to discard those, too, to take himself entirely in hand and speeding up his pace. There’s no room for taking it slow, here, and there’s no motivation for getting it over with so he can recover quickly any more. The details of why they’re here or the fact that Simmons is at _work_ and with a group who are probably going to notice his absence (for whatever reasons) (maybe) are totally gone from his brain, it’s just this and his hand and whatever particularly seasoned fantasy this place is cooking up for him.

“Grif--!”

The Grif in his aforementioned fantasies is pushing him against the wall, kissing and biting against his neck, grinding against his imaginary erection (his _erection_ is very real, but he’s significantly more clothed in his fantasies) with a leg, and at some point during this fantasy he moves his hands, slides Simmons’ boxers right off, and lets them fall at his feet, moving a hand to take Simmons himself and stroke him significantly slower than Simmons is currently stroking _himself_ . Teasing, almost. Like he’s mocking Simmons’ desperation. He’d kiss at Simmons’ neck a little more, move up to meet his eyes, ask him again what’s got him so worked up-- and Simmons wouldn’t quite be sure how to respond, because he doesn’t know, it’s just the _heat_ , it’s so hot in here, and Grif would keep up the eye contact in a frankly judgemental fashion until Simmons stopped stuttering out excuses, to which Grif would ask if it was _him_ (which it was) and, if so, leaning in to kiss at Simmons’ neck again, that he hadn’t realised, all this time, that Simmons was _quite_ such a shameful little _slut_.

(Forgive Simmons, here, okay. Guy’s been through a lot of shit in his life. He didn’t have a great childhood, and he has an awful lot of complexes, and a lot of his life was spent jumping through hoops to meet the bare minimum of the tall orders that other people demanded from him. He wouldn’t be entirely sure, himself, why this manifested into a liking for degradation and slight masochism in _particular_ , but he is very about having a controlling influence, which does make a lot more sense, and fetishes _do_ tend to stem from weird psychological places. He’s not really trying to be _offensive_ about it.)

Either way, this line of thought is very much getting him going, and Simmons stutters out _some_ sort of noise (he’s truthfully not sure what) and arches his back into the contact, and lets the imaginary Grif that is currently jacking him off do his thing, and he’s still hot, but… less so, almost. Like this is _helping_ . He’s very worked up, at this point, very involved in his own personal fantasy, and he’s barely aware he’s in the temple at all, any more, as a matter of fact. He’s kind of… in too deep to care about anything else, now. He’d probably be _very_ embarrassed when he climaxes, but… it’s working for the moment.

(There’s a “Grif!” again, then, and then a smaller, muffled, “God, Dex, please--”)

Though, again, while Simmons is hardly comatose, and perfectly capable of snapping himself out of it, he is in this daydream pretty deep. So much so that he’s … not watching his volume, any more. Which could make things difficult.

Or it might just be really convenient, depending on how things pan out.

 

  * \- * -



Unbeknown to Simmons, the real and far less suave Dexter Grif was having a similar problem.

Simmons might be comforted to know that at various points throughout their time here, most of the members of their team had, at one point, dropped out. Found somewhere private, took care of themselves, and then zipped themselves back up to rejoin the group and hope that nobody wondered where they were.

(Nobody was particularly concerned, as a matter of fact. It was too hot to bother, and most of the group were lost anyway. Nobody had seen Tucker for almost the whole day.) (He’d come to regret that later.)

Unfortunately for Simmons, though, someone _had_ noticed that he was missing. And someone _was_ worried. And someone _had_ wondered off to look for him. And the _actual_ Dexter Grif is sat in his own private little chamber, here, now, pulling off his armour in much the same way Simmons had, exhaling slightly at the relief of not being in a sardine can any more, and stretching himself out. His body temperature felt like it was starting to regulate itself, at least. Maybe he could leave his armour here, he reasons, and just go and find Simmons dressed like this. Probably not a _clever_ idea, sure, but he highly doubts there’s anyone around here willing or able to _steal_ it, and he’s not sure how much further he can go like that. He feels hot enough just as he is, in tshirt and boxers. He can’t really imagine what it would feel like to put his armour back _on_. He decides not to chance it, for now.

(And also because he’s really, _really_ hard, but he’s not going to _focus_ on that right now, god damn it. Simmons is the important thing, here.)

He’s about to embark on this noble quest to save Simmons from whatever the fuck ate him along the way when he hears something that sounds like a muffled shout.

And Grif pauses, mid half effort into getting up off the floor, shuffles his way over one of the adjacent walls, and listens in.

It’s faint, muffled through the walls, but he can hear something that sounds like his name, just vaguely, and he presses his head a little closer into it, almost convinced that he’s imagining it until he hears it again, a faint little shout, a “Grif!” that makes his stomach lurch, instantly. Because that’s Simmons, he thinks, desperately, that’s Simmons and he’s calling for him and he’s in _trouble_ , he must be, and he can’t let Simmons get hurt. He can’t, and he needs to go after him--

“Fuck--” And then, equally muffled, “Dex, D-- Grif, please--” and Grif… stops, for a moment.

That’s definitely his name, but… it doesn’t sound like Simmons is in _trouble_ , as such, and he pauses, then, presses himself closer against the wall, just to-- no, because it couldn’t be, could it? (If not for the fact that he can feel his heartbeat between his own legs, he’d probably dismiss the notion entirely, but there’s something in the _air_ , here, and it’s planting the seeds of doubt.)

Part of him is saying that if Simmons is being legitimately threatened, right now, that he’s wasting valuable time, and he’d probably regret this if the guy actually got hurt, but then he hears it again, a faint “Grif, please--” and there’s definitely no doubt about it, at this point. Simmons isn’t in danger, isn’t jeopardised in any way at _all_ , by his understanding. It sounds a lot more like the guy’s just…. jacking off.

To him.

And god, does the thought of _that_ drive Grif wild.

Too wild, in fact, if the insistent feeling in his groin is any indication, and with the hypothetical threat gone Grif finds himself sliding down the wall, before he can stop himself, shaking hands pulling off his boxers, and he leans against the wall and lets his hand slowly trail down, between his legs, and he barely gives himself time to ponder the morality of this situation before he takes hold and starts to stroke. 

It’s a good feeling, honestly. A lot of relief, and he finds himself letting out a few little noises himself, when he first starts, leaning his head back against the wall - which is a good choice, on his part, because he can hear more of _Simmons’_ moaning, and that’s enough to drive him crazy by itself. The thought of Simmons being next door, doing the exact same thing, stroking himself off furiously, and to the thought of _Grif_ , no less….. It does things to him. Things that are hardly noble. He finds himself almost wondering what Simmons is fantasising about - he could say a lot about his own personal Simmons-based fantasies (most of which factored in Simmons’ weird kink for power, and Grif’s personal habit of never taking anything seriously and pissing everyone off in the process) but judging by what he’s getting from next door, he can only conclude that simmons is personally fantasising about an entirely _different_ dynamic, and that’s kind of hot. (If he was in his right mind, right now, he’d be a little concerned about the compatibility of them _both_ being bottoms, but…. He’s sure they can work through that.)

It does sound kind of hot, now that he thinks about it, fucking Simmons. (Not… in the general sense, here. He’s thought about _that_ enough times. He’s talking literally, here.) Putting all of his effort into making Simmons /feel/ good, using his hands and using his mouth and making Simmons squirm and make more of those cute little sounds, and Grif’s suspicions that he’d be sensitive and responsive are only backed up by whatever’s going on next door. He’d tease his way down, then, he figures. Keep kissing him and moving his hands around his body, reduce the guy to a shivering, begging wreck before he even got between his legs at all.

Yeah. Grif could dig that.

He _is_ digging that. His hand is kind of speeding up, just a little, of its’ own accord, and Grif has to keep his other hand over his mouth to stop himself making a few choice vocalisations of his own. Simmons just seems to be getting _louder_ next door, little shouts becoming far more audible, more desperate, more… _inventive_ . (It takes all the inner strength he has not to reply, honestly. He hadn’t realised Simmons was _quite_ this into dirty talk, but…. If he ever gets to bang the guy, he’ll bear it in mind.)

(Which is looking entirely more likely, all of a sudden. He hadn’t put much faith in the idea before, but…. If Simmons is _this into_ the idea of fucking him, well, who’s Grif to stop him.)

There’s a lot more desperation in his tone, now. Guy seems to be getting closer - and honestly, judging by whatever he’s fantasising about over there, Grif can’t blame him. It’s doing something pretty fucking magical to him _himself_ , though he’s not sure whether that’s the nature of what Simmons is saying, or just the fact that it’s Simmons. (Or both. Possibly both. Who knows.)

His hand tightens around his own erection, just a little, and Grif leans back and lets his body take over, lets his hand move at whatever pace it wants, fueled entirely by the basics of his own fantasies and the noises Simmons is making. He knows what Simmons is like, of course, and he has a _pretty_ good idea of where his thoughts are going, if what he’s saying is any indication. For a moment, he takes a detour from his usual fantasies, and pictures himself taking Simmons by the hand, pulling him in for sweet, sporadic little kisses, letting his hands roam all over him, and when it _was_ time to actually do something for him, time to stop teasing and get on with it, he’d lean in, trail kisses all the way down Simmons’ chest, stopping just at the dip of his waist, for a moment, to press more gentle little kisses to his naval. And he’d wait, then, just for a moment, just long enough for Simmons to get antsy and _beg_ him for more, to push his hips into him, and _then_ he’d move a little lower and take Simmons into his mouth and move his hands to Simmons’ hips and let his teammate fuck his mouth with more enthusiasm than Grif has probably put into _anything_.

God, yeah, and Simmons would enjoy that just as much as he would, he thinks. He’d be far more focused on that, on making Simmons feel good, too, because that’s as much Grif’s fetish as anything else is, and he could pretty much just get off to the idea of making Simmons lose his composure entirely, driving more of those sweet sounds out of him, turning off his ability for coherent thought and overloading his senses and just… seeing the guy unravel for once.

And he is kind of getting off on that, in a sense, because Simmons is getting off on that too, next door, and it’s mostly the fact that he’s yelling Grif’s name as he does it that’s _really_ getting to him. Grif speeds up his own pace, lets out a broken little yell, and lets his head fall back against the wall.

Simmons is getting louder, as a matter of fact. Simmons is getting closer. And whatever’s going on in Simmons’ head, back there, it’s undeniable that his fantasies about Grif are kind of a vehicle for that, and to reiterate, that’s exactly the kind of shit that turns the actual Grif on really, so it’s no surprise that he’s getting pretty hot under the collar too. Not quite _close_ yet, but almost - though the way Simmons is screaming for him now isn’t helping, and Grif bites his lip, lets his hand move faster, and tries to focus his energy on catching up, on reaching his climax at the same time. That would be pretty beautiful, he muses. Still not quite sex in the way he’d like it, but… assisted orgasming. That surely counts for something, he reasons, even if he’s not actually over there to get his hands on Simmons’ assorted and ambiguous junk himself.

Even if he really, really, wishes he was.

But no matter to that. He can kind of feel it budding, a weird, tense sort of feeling in the back of his groin, and Grif lets out a little moan, thrusts his hips up into the contact - and Simmons does the same, he’s sure, because he can hear a broken little noise next door, too, and that just makes it all the better. Simmons is less doing _words_ and more doing sporadic little noises, now, so clearly he’s knocked out his ability for speech, and Grif can feel his own kind of wither there, as well. There’s a lot of things in his mind that aren’t really working right now. He can’t think straight, he can barely see straight, everything in his mind is clouded over and it’s just him and Simmons and the very personalised noises next door and the thought of _one of them_ (and he really, really doesn’t care who) pinning the other one down and fucking them into this particular brand of incoherent ecstasy and setting all their senses on fire, and--  
  
And it is _so_ fucking hot in here.  
  
He can hear Simmons falling apart next door, a little litany of “Grif!”s and equally incoherent babbling, and Grif is much the same way himself, at this point, and finally lets himself finish with his own affected little noises, and then finally a lone, irrepressible “Simmons!” before he loses himself entirely and his hips move into his hand of their own accord, and he takes a moment to ride out his orgasm at a reasonable volume before he slumps back against the wall, panting, and his face is probably red, now, and his eyes are probably glazed over, and he still feels _hot_ but it’s a different kind, like he’s been running laps, or exercising, not the oppressive heat of before--  
  
“Grif?”  
  
Grif freezes.  
  
Normally he’d be pretty used to the idea of Simmons calling his name, by now, all things considered, but now he sounds _confused_ , and it suddenly occurs to Grif, at that moment, that if he can hear _Simmons_ so well--  
  
Simmons must have been able to hear him.  
  
_Fuck_.

“Uh.” Because he’s not entirely sure how to respond to that, and he scratches the back of his head, coughs a little. Something had evidently got stuck in his throat while he was enjoying himself back here. Behind him, he hears Simmons swear, a muffled, panicked little “Shit!” and the clanking of metal. Well fucking done, Grif. You ruined the guy’s day. Now you’re going to go back and join the rest of the group and it’s going to be _awkward_ and you’re going to be in stage two of “there is clear sexual tension here that neither of us are speaking of” and you know what, Grif? That was really fucking irresponsible. Great job.

Grif exhales, sighs a familiar, discontented sigh, and grabs his helmet.

…..And then puts it back down. No. He’s not going to let this happen again. If there’s _any_ time to act, it’s now. He is absolutely sick of just fantasising about this, just going over the motions of _talking_ to Simmons, properly, and never actually doing it, so you know what? Now, he’s Doing It. Suck it up, Dexter. It’s time for feelings.

So Grif unlocks the door, opens it up with somewhat shaking hands, marches himself over to the room next door where he assumes Simmons is (it would make sense, geographically) and knocks.  
  
The little squeal from inside confirms his suspicions, and there are a few more metal-y noises, and Grif forces himself to _not_ turn back now, under any means, and knocks the door again.  
  
“Simmons!” It’s against his better judgement, but… then again, even if it _does_ go wrong, here, at least he’d know. It’s the tension he can’t take any more. Even outright rejection would be preferable to that. (He’d be hurt, of course, and very confused, but…. It’s definite, at least.)  
  
“Simmons.” Again. “Don’t… you don’t have to put your armour back on. Just come out. It’s just me.”

There’s silence on the other end, though now that he’s close to the door, he can _slightly_ hear some particularly heavy breathing. Guy’s nervous, he reasons. He’s pretending he’s not here. That won’t really work on Grif, though, because he’s been listening to him masturbate through the wall for the past, like, half an hour, so he knocks again.  
  
“Simmons.” It’s gentler, now. “I know you don’t wanna come out and face me, okay? I wouldn’t wanna face me either, but we need to talk about this.”

There’s a little more silence, and Grif sighs.  
  
“Please.”

He’s about to give up entirely when the door opens, just a bit, enough of a little fraction for him to be able to see Simmons’ face through the door, and Grif smiles at him, gives him a little wave. Simmons looks down, looks back up, and when he speaks his voice sounds strained.  
  
“How long have you been here.”  
  
He’s probably got a bit of a sore throat, Grif reasons. Anyone would lose their voice if they’d been yelling like _that_.

So he just shrugs. “Long enough.”  
  
Simmons doesn’t look very contented with this information, and Grif looks away, looks back, and then shrugs. “If it, uh. Helps? I was kind of…. Yeah. As well. If…” Simmons doesn’t seem content with _that_ either, looking more like he’s about to burst as time goes on, and Grif looks behind him, almost desperately, like that would help, before turning back to simmons with a quiet, resigned little exhale through his nose.  
  
“Look,” he says. “This place is doing some freaky shit to us, okay? You weren’t the only one getting hot and bothered in there. I think it’s, like.. Fucking with our minds, Simmons. Wash and Carolina are probably getting down in some closet as we speak.” Simmons lets out a strained little sound that _hopefully_ means he found it funny, and Grif continues, over the top. “Hell, Sarge is probably over in some corner somewhere. Thinking about whatever he’s thinking about--”  
  
He’d almost cut himself off there _anyway_ , if Simmons hadn’t make some incredulous squawking noise. “Grif, no! I don’t want to think about that! Nobody wants to think about that!” And then, slightly quieter, “I was more just laughing at… you know, Wash, and--”  
  
Grif quirks an eyebrow. “Is that funny?”

“I mean, it’s funny that you still think Wash is into women.”

“Seriously? I-- wait, is it _all_ of us?”

“I mean, I don’t think so.” The door is open a little more, now, and Simmons shrugs, sort of noncommittally. “We have Tucker.”  
  
Grif snorts. “I don’t think Tucker really cares, Simmons. Just draw a damn face on it. He’d fuck anything if he thought it was into him.”  
  
“That’s… actually kind of sad.”

“Isn’t it just.”

There’s an awkward silence, there. Grif scratches the back of his head, again, looks behind him, and then back at Simmons, who’s now fixated on the floor. This is Serious Talk time, he recognises, and clears his throat. It’s now or never, really, he thinks. If you can’t talk about your gay feelings after you overhear your teammate masturbating to something that involves him yelling your name a lot… when can you talk about them?

You can’t. Grif needs to address this immediately.

“Look…” He doesn’t get any further than that before Simmons cuts him off.  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
There’s an awkward little pause, as Grif tries to register that, and Simmons continues. “I…. I know it’s probably…. You probably came in to ask what that was all about, and I-- I don’t _know_ what that was about, Grif, it just-- Got so _hot_ in there, and I just needed to get it out somehow, and… All I could think about was you.” And he sounds resigned, now. Grif was right. He is embarrassed. “And I don’t know… why, or how, but I _do_ know and I _do_ understand that you’re probab-- no, you’re not into that, and I don’t _blame_ you, so, uh. If…. if you just let me put my a-armour back on, we don’t have to talk about this again. I. I promise. We can just keep g-going the way we were always going, and--”  
  
“Richard.”

It’s the quiet little vocalisation of his first name that cuts Simmons off, and makes him squeak, and Grif continues, in a far less appropriately heartfelt way than his previous interruption would indicate.

“I was _gonna_ say, if you want me to nip back next door and, uh, grab my armour, I could come in and we could… I don’t know? Make a round two of it?”  
  
It’s the most ambitious thing he’s ever said, and his head is spinning, as he does, and he can actually _feel_ his heartbeat speeding up, and there’s a few moments of Simmons looking at him incredulously and Grif thinking, god, he’s made some horrible mistake, maybe Simmons _was_ just addled by the pheremones and saying the first thing that came into his head and maybe he’s not into Grif at _all_ and how could he be so _stupid_ of course he wouldn't want--  
  
“You’d do that?”

Grif splutters, for a moment, before trying to hide his shock (and relief), and a slowly growing smile creeps up on his face.

“You’re making it sound like a _chore_.”

Simmons is still staring at him. His mouth is open, a little, and if it was possible for him to blush _more_ , Grif would say that he probably is. He coughs, a little, moves a hand up over his mouth, scratches his arm, and gives a slow nod.  
  
“I…. okay, uh. Yeah. Why not.” He’s obviously flustered, and he looks away for a minute, before looking back at Grif. “You, uh. Do that. I’ll be…. Well, I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
Grif would like to tell him to stop babbling, but all he can manage is a slow nod, and it’s with speed and motivation unnatural to the fibre of his being that he bounces back into the other room, gathers his armour up, and returns himself to Simmons.

Simmons is sat on the floor, still flushed, taking the occasional sip from a bottle of water that he got… somewhere (Grif isn’t sure where) and he doesn’t register Grif, at first, when he comes back in, but as he sets his armour down in the corner, as he approaches, he speaks up. It’s quiet, still a little strained. He must have really thrown out his voice from all that screaming.

“Are you, uh. Sure you want to do this?”

Grif sits himself opposite Simmons and tries not to laugh at the question lest he make his teammate more insecure about this whole thing than he already is. “Simmons. I have not been more sure about _anything_ my entire military career. You really don’t have to ask me that.”  
  
“Wait--” He can see Simmons kind of struggling to put it together, here. He’s a smart guy, of course, but… maybe he just couldn’t convince himself to believe it. Grif doesn’t blame him for that, honestly. “For-- How long was that?”

“Oh, dude, I’m talking about the _early_ days. I’m talking about, like, Blood Gulch, pre Donut kind of shit.” Grif moves a little closer, puts his hand on Simmons’ knee, thanks whatever’s up there that he finally has the opportunity to do that. “I’ve wanted to do this _forever_ , Simmons. I’m not gonna flake out on you now.”  
  
Simmons bites his lip, looks up at him… and nods, settles himself back, propped up on his elbows. There’s something kind of submissive about it. And also kind of hot. “You know, you could have said something like, five years ago.”  
  
“Oh, yeah?” Moving between his legs, now, leaning in to kiss his neck. “Well if you’re so smart, why didn’t you?” God, Grif’s wanted to be here for forever, and now he’s spending all his time _bitching_. He takes a moment of silence, to saviour it, lets his hands wander up Simmons’ chest, under his shirt, to rest gently onto…. Oddly squishy pectorals. (Still, so are Grif’s, so it’s not like he can judge. He squeezes, a bit, to test Simmons’ reaction.)

“Because _I_ wanted to bide my time and make absolutely sure that I wasn’t going to make a fucking idiot of myself, Grif. I was _rationalising_ my choices this entire time! I had a whole plan worked out! I--” Simmons’ tirade cuts off, suddenly, as Grif applies the pressure, and he can _hear_ his teammate’s breath hitch, just slightly. “F-Fuck-- Okay, point taken, but I--! You know, I thought about this!”

“Obviously not hard enough.” Grif is kind of on top of him, by now, pressing little kisses against his neck, and Simmons wonders if maybe the heat killed him and he went to heaven. (But then again, he reasons, why would he go _there_ .) “Look at you, Simmons. How would a smart guy like you not think I’d be super into you from the getgo. Why would you _worry_ about it.”

“I do look at myself, Grif. Daily.” Simmons’ voice is still strained, but it’s taken on a somewhat tired quality. “That’s why I was worried.”

And Grif kisses his neck, moves his hands, takes the waistband of Simmons’ boxers, and tugs them back down, to around his knees, before kicking them off entirely with his foot in a surprisingly agile fashion.  
  
“Don’t be.” he says. It’s right up against Simmons’ neck. “I’m here now.”

Simmons wriggles a little, against him, whispers an “I know,” and leans forward to kiss Grif gently.

Grif isn’t one to stay in one place for too long, Simmons discovers. They stay locked in the kiss, for a while, just to savour it, but soon it gets uncomfortable and hard to breathe, and Grif pulls away, kisses at Simmons’ neck some more, works his way down in a trail of kisses to his chest, and move a hand back up to cup him, again, thumb gently skimming over a nipple. It’s distracting, and Simmons’ breath hitches, just slightly, but not distracting enough that he doesn’t notice Grif’s hand moving a little further downwards.

“So.” Oh god, he’s got his hand on Simmons’ dick now. Simmons fights the urge to scream, cry, throw up, or just stop breathing, and sits himself up a little to see what Grif’s chatting about. He’s not… stimulating him, in any way, more just turning the prosthetic about in his hand, inspecting it. “What’s the idea with this, then? I mean, I know you gave me a lot of shit, Simmons, and I am _eternally_ grateful for that, but I don’t remember you ever donating your dick.”  
  
“I mean.. No. Of course not.” And Grif peers at him, obviously confused, and Simmons peers back, confused by his confusion, and they stay like that for a little while before Grif volunteers his next guess. “So…. did Sarge accidentally--”

 _“Grif._ ” Is he joking? Simmons can’t tell, any more. He sits up, lets Grif pull back, and reaches between his legs to take some of the lower panelling off his prosthetic. It’s a fiddly process, and he hates doing it in front of people (not that he’s ever really had to, before now)  but… it’s necessary, and he manages, and soon the few pieces of metal covering his (slightly uncomfortable) biological genitalia are dislodged, and Grif looks to Simmons, to between his legs, to Simmons again, and scratches his head.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Simmons blinks. “You didn’t _know_.”

“Uh.” Grif’s voice is kind of shaky. “You know, in hindsight, it was like, probably kind of obvious--”  
  
“Grif.” God, he can feel the familiar Grif-based exasperation coming back. “How did-- How did you not figure it-- Grif, I have a _robotic penis_. Does that seem like the normal male experience.”

“I don’t know!” It’s not loud. It’s more an embarrassed outburst. “I just…. Kind of assumed there’d been some kind of surgical error? I mean, it’s Sarge, come on, let’s be real--”  
  
“Grif, please.” God, he doesn’t want to think about that. “No, he, uh. He built this to…. Um. Help me, I guess. I mean, it all still kind of works, under there….. he’s an engineer, Grif, not a surgeon… I mean, this is kind of, uh, wired in, I guess, so I can feel it? It just… I mean, if he closed it all off it would cause a lot of serious health complications, uh, it wouldn’t be very hygenic and he’d have to, uh, reroute a lot of functions, and there’d be risk of infection, or--”  
  
“Hold up. Hold on one _fucking_ minute, Simmons.” Not that Grif cares about any of this, apparently. “Did Sarge _build you a dick_ for  _transition purposes_.”

Simmons clears his throat. “In a sense.”

Grif stares at him. It’s intense. For a moment, Simmons thinks he’s doubting their suddenly shifted relationship status, going back on everything he said, maybe this was too much for him to take-- god, and SImmons never _asked_ his opinion on trans people, either, maybe he’s horrified and disgusted and oh wait hang on he’s laughing.  
  
It’s a snort, and a giggle, and then Grif shakes his head, and before SImmons can brokenly ask him what he finds so _amusing_ , Grif cuts back in with a “I guess the ass kissing makes a lot more sense now.”

Simmons swallows. “I… thought it was a nice gesture.”  
  
“It is! Surprisingly nice. Maybe the guy does have a heart in there somewhere. Cold and dead though it may be.” Grif’s examining the hole in the panelling, and Simmons lays back down, screws his eyes shut. He’s not sure how comfortable he feels with all of this attention. Now that he’s here, it’s just sort of making him self conscious. He can feel Grif’s fingers around the rim, on the underside, and he doesn’t really have any feeling there but it makes him squeak, all the same.  
  
“Do you think my dick would fit into there?”  
  
SImmons immediately sits himself back up. “Excuse me?”

“I mean,” Grif is surprisingly blasé about this, peering between Simmons’ legs like he’s never seen a robotic penis before. “If I wanted to fuck you. Like, properly. Would my dick fit into… the...space, I mean. Like. Without, I don’t know, metallic chafing or whatever.”  
  
“I… don’t know. I mean. I’ve not really tried.” Simmons takes a lot himself, swallows. “I… guess? But I mean, do you-- I mean, Grif, I don’t…. have access to a lot of resources out here, you understand, I mean… do you have any kind of… contraception, or--”

It’s not like you can just get testosterone in _space_ , Grif. In the space military. What he _doesn’t_ expect is for Grif to pull himself up, bound back over to his armour, and there’s a moment where Simmons is worried that he’s said something wrong, done something wrong, and he expects even _less_ for Grif to come back with something that is unmistakably a condom.  
  
Simmons swallows. “Grif.” He says, weakly. “Where the fuck.”

“Donut.” says Grif, like it’s obvious. “Said he had some left over. He got them from Blue Base. I don’t know what he was doing over at Blue Base with condoms, but I… I mean, I was gonna fill it with water and fuck up somebody’s day, but I guess this is as good a use as any.”  
  
“But where did Blue Base--”  
  
“I don’t know, Simmons. Right now, I don’t really care. Let Donut do what he wants with the Blues, okay? He’s a free, untameable spirit, or something. I don’t know. Why are we talking about Donut while I’m trying to fuck you?”

Maybe it’s the blunt nature of the sentence, or the casual way that Grif says it, but _something_ gets Simmons going, and his breath hitches, and he nods, and he lays down, and subtly parts his thighs a little more.  
  
“Okay,” he says. It’s a little uncertain. “Sure. Absolutely.”  
  
Grif, while he does this, has wriggled out of his own boxers, and is partway through rolling the condom on, but here he stops, looks up, tilts his head. “Hey.” Quietly, reassuringly. “If you’re not ready, that’s okay. We can do something else, you know, if you’d, uh, rather I didn’t-- or we can always… leave it, you know, I get it if--”  
  
“No--” Okay, that sounds desperate. Try again, Simmons. “Uh. No. That’s… that’s fine. I’m just a little nervous. You can, uh-- please keep going.”  
  
And Grif _smiles_ , finishes up, wipes the excess lube off his hands onto his thighs in a slightly gross and probably not hygenic way before positioning himself back between Simmons’ legs, and taking himself in hand.  
  
“Are we good?” He says, and Simmons bites his lip, makes a firm, unarguable decision (like he’s ever not been) and nods again.  
  
“Yeah.” he says. “We’re good.”  
  
“Great,” says Grif, and it’s warm, and loving, and affectionate, and Simmons’ heart is doing backflips, and Grif leans in, captures his lips, and kisses him softly.  
  
And god, it’s good. And Simmons kisses back, feels Grif push inside him, and wraps his legs around the other’s waist in response.

To his credit, Grif does stay there, for a moment, hips static as he kisses Simmons for the second time today, before pulling back, just a little, just enough to ask, “Is it, uh. Okay? Doesn’t hurt too much?”  
  
“I mean, no, not really.” Mild discomfort, sure, but nothing he’d call pain. “Uh. The, uh. Hymen is kind of prone to break under stress anyway. Like, uh, horse riding, or whatever. I’m pretty sure it’s probably already gone by now, uh, considering our line of work.”  
  
“Oh.” Grif grins at him. It’s obnoxious, and Simmons hates it. “So you _are_ a virgin.”

God, he’s great at ruining the moment, isn’t he? Simmons bats at him irritably. “Get lost.”

“But then you’ll be a virgin forever. And that’s no fun.” And it’s not like Simmons can argue with that, because Grif chooses _then_ to start moving, and any objection that Simmons was going to make is cut off in favour of a muffled moan.  
  
“Grif--” There’s something about him that’s a little different, from this perspective. Simmons isn’t sure if it’s the pheromones from the temple, or the pheromones of his long-term crush finally banging him, or whether there is some kind of radiant symbolic light that surrounds people when you fuck them, but something about him almost looks ethereally pretty. His hips are going at a steady pace, now, and he’s mostly leaning in, to kiss at Simmons’ neck, his mouth, his collarbones, anywhere he can find, and Simmons’ senses are going mental, here. God. His fantasies never factored in that it would be _this_ good. (What he’s doing with his dick isn’t even… the _best_ thing he’s ever felt. It’s just _everything else_ . It’s everything about Grif, right now, in this moment, that’s really doing it for him, and Simmons takes in a shaky breath and lets his thighs part a little more.  
  
“Grif?” It’s half a moan, half a question, and Grif lets his hips stay at their comfortable pace, pulls back, just a little, pushes himself up onto his hands and keeps his face inches away from Simmons’.

“What?”  
  
Simmons’ voice is thick and kind of slurred, in the way that suggests that he’s super fucking into this. “I love you.”

And Grif smiles at him, kisses his nose, says “I love you too,” and it’s authentic, and gentle, and the happiest Simmons has ever seen him, and then he pulls back, keeps a hand on Simmons’ hip (to assist him in the movement, no doubt) and lets his other hand grip the base of Simmons’ prosthetic dick gently.  
  
And Simmons’ breath hitches a little more.  
  
“So.” Just like before, but this time he’s moving his hand, in slow little strokes, that almost match the rhythm of what he’s doing with his hips, and it’s almost /too/ good, and Simmons isn’t sure what he wants his hands to do, here, so he just clutches his tshirt instead and hopes that’ll make the urge to do _something_ go away.

“How does this work? Because you’ve told me what it is, but not how it works--” He twists his grip, slightly, and Simmons cries out, legs flailing a little, “And I’m a little lost, Simmons. You’re obviously feeling _something_ . Is this thing wired into your nervous system, or--?”  
  
“Sort of.” Simmons can manage to nerd at the most trying of times, it seems, even if his words are slurred and breathy and strained, still. “It’s, ah. Kind of… I think it goes through the, ah. Clitoris. Kind of, um, magnifies whatever you’re doing with your-- hands!” And fuck, what Grif _is_ doing with his hands, indeed. “So, I’d guess sort of, like, the, uh, nerve endings were already there, they’ve just kind of been, uh. Reassigned, I guess--”

“I see.” And Grif _squeezes_ , for some reason, and that gets a noise out of SImmons that he didn’t even know he could make, and he starts to jerk a little more harshly now, speeding up his hips to keep time with the rhythm. “That’s cute. I’m not going to think too hard about the implications of that, uh, in relation to our team dynamic, but I’ll… keep it in mind.”

“I’m sure you will.” There’s a lot of overstimulation going on, here, and Simmons can’t really keep his thoughts in one place, and he’s panting, a little, moving his hips back up into Grif’s, and he lets his head fall back, again, squeezes his eyes shut.  
  
“If you keep that up--” It does take him a couple of minutes to concentrate on getting his words back on track. “I’m gonna finish, like, embarrassingly early, and it’s going to be awkward for both of us.”  
  
“Please. Like you’re not having the same effect.” Is Grif out of breath too? He can’t be this wound up already, surely. Simmons privately puts it down to their environment, and then forgets that entirely when Grif gives his prosthetic a squeeze. “You know how _hot_ you are like this, Simmons? It’s driving me crazy. I don’t want us to stop. I just wanna keep going for _days_ until we collapse from physical fucking exhaustion.” A snort. “Literally. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this, Simmons. And-- shit!-- you have _no_ idea how much I’m enjoying it now.”

Realistically, it’s probably just Grif babbling because he’s nervous, and overstimulated to boot, but…. again, Simmons likes his dirty talk, and as such that gets a reaction out of him, gets him pushing his hips back against Grif’s, whimpering a little at the dual stimulation, here, and then Grif moves his other hand off Simmons’ hip, rests his elbow on the floor next to him and somehow maneuvers his hand back onto Simmons’ chest. Obviously he’s still leaning mostly on that arm, so he can’t do much, but he can squeeze, a little, let his hand cup the sensitive little mound of flesh, and Simmons’ hips jerk sporadically against his and Grif considers this a minor victory.  
  
(He’s not paying too much attention to the thrusting, here. His hips are just kind of…. doing what they want.)

“Grif--” Simmons swallows, here, and his mouth is dry and his voice is shaky, and Grif would like to entirely ignore him and just focus on riding this bliss, for a moment, before Simmons’ words catch up with him. “It’s… I think it’s the room, Grif. You said this place was fucking with us, making it hot, and, uh… instigating arousal, I guess.” Smooth, Simmons. “I think I’ve figured it… I’ve figured it out.”  
  
“By all means.” Why is his head so fuzzy? They’ve only just started. God, this better not be what he’s really like in bed. He lasts so long when he masturbates. He might actually cry. “Go ahead.”

“It’s a temple of procreation, Grif. Not, like, of life, or whatever. Actual, legitimate, uh. I mean, you know what procreation means, right?”  
  
Grif pauses to think, for a moment. Mostly. His hips are still going, and he can see Simmons’ face tense beneath him. “Uh. I mean, I…. assumed it had something to do with, uh, life giving--”  
  
Click.  
  
“ _Oh_ .”  
  
“Oh indeed. Uh. I think this is where people in Chorus used to come to…. Uh. Conceive.” Simmons is gritting his teeth, now. “It’s literally a sex temple. You were right. Everyone else in here would have been affected by it. Uh. Maybe even the surrounding area. I don’t know. But… it’s…. It’s doing something. It’s not just us, it’s--”  
  
“So we’ve got some kind of team orgy going on somewhere right now?” A pretty hypocritical joke to make, considering that he’s balls deep in his teammate right now. “Somewhere in the depths of the, uh, ancient Chorusian artifact, the former residents of Blood Gulch and Project Freelancer are getting it on.”  
  
“I mean, probably. That’s, ah, very likely.” Simmons wriggles, a little, breaths coming in harder, a little louder. He’s obviously getting a little heated. More so than he should be, Grif thinks, but maybe that’s the point he’s trying to make. “I-- I don’t think this is going to last very _long_ , Grif. What it probably wants us to do is have multiple rounds that last, like, twenty seconds, in order for the population to, uh, have a better chance of knocking each other up, I guess.”

“Do we have time for multiple rounds? Because I’m not going to lie, I could do this all night.” He could quite happily just sit here and fuck Simmons to multiple orgasms for as long as the building stayed open, but… he only has one condom, and they might have to rejoin their team at some point, so he might just have to settle with making this one good, and then fucking him again, maybe, when they get home.  
  
Yeah. He’d like that. Maybe they should make this a daily thing. Get some stress release going. They have a lot of years to make up for.

Simmons stays quiet, for that, eyes screwed shut, and then he says “So-- So could I, Grif, I want to,” and then “I’m-- I’m getting--” and Grif nods, pauses his ministrations, takes his hand off his dick and leans down to capture Simmons’ lips again.  
  
“It’s alright.” Breathy, against them. “You can, uh.” God, this just sounds so cheesy in real life. “Go on. I wanna see you finish. I bet it’s cute.” His hips are still going, even where his hands aren’t, and Simmons pushes his hips back up against him, grinds his prosthetic against Grif’s stomach, keens, a bit, and Grif kisses him, again, and Simmons kisses back, and he swears it’s like some god up there flicked a switch, or something, because something in Simmons just /tenses/, reforms, and Grif finds his body seizing in the same way, and he yells something (he’s not sure what) and Simmons yells something, too, and Grif holds onto him and tells himself they’re doing this again.  
  
God. They’re doing this for the rest of their lives. He doesn’t know why they didn’t start sooner. Unthinkable, really.  
  
(Grif loves Simmons. It's a dazed thought, but he's still thinking it. God, he loves him so much.)

 

  * \- * -



 

When they get back to the rest of their group, eventually, after many fitful rounds and half rounds and mouths and hands in places where they shouldn’t be, Simmons is holding Grif’s hand, as well as he can, from inside their armour, and they’re both pretty out of it. Otherwise, they are projecting the sense that nothing is wrong, nothing is out of sorts, and everything is entirely normal.  
  
Most of their group is stood outside the temple, with a few exceptions - Tucker is gone, and so is Wash, and they can’t seem to see Sarge anywhere, either, but Caboose, Donut, and Carolina are there, outside, helmets off, getting some fresh air.  
  
Grif clears his throat, puts a normal voice on, and makes his way over.  
  
“Finally.” He says, like he’s bitching, and definitely not like his voice is strained from screaming Simmons’ name for the past hour. “I’ve been looking for you guys everywhere! You would not believe what kind of labyrinth this place is. Where are the others? We need to go.”

“For once, he’s right.” Thanks, Simmons. “I don’t think staying here would be a very good idea. We should, uh Round everyone up and clear out.”  
  
“We’re not leaving without the rest of our team.” Carolina seems…. Oddly rattled. Oh god, Grif thinks. Did it get to her too? But who would she even-- “Sarge went to find you two. I’ll, uh. Have to let him know you’re back.” Pausing, for a moment, and then “We’ve located… Tucker and Wash.”  
  
It almost seems like she’s blurted it. Grif raises his eyebrows.  
  
“And?”  
  
Carolina’s voice sounds a little more strained. “We’re going to wait for them to catch up with us.”  
  
“Can’t we just go and get them?” Simmons pipes up, and Carolina coughs-- has she gone a little red? Unheard of. Grif is tempted to take a picture.  
  
“No.” She says, quite simply. “We really can’t.”

“Yeah,” pipes up Donut, from behind her. “And I thought you guys would know all about that.”  
  
Grif can feel something inside him tense. “All about _what_ , Donut.”

“Hmm. Alright. I’ll give you space.” Turning back to Caboose, Donut continues. “Looks like you were right all along, buddy! Guess I owe you! But I never doubted you for a second. Sounds like you’ve got a keen eye for this kind of thing.”  
  
Caboose shrugs. “It was pretty obvious.” And to Simmons and Grif, now. “How was the storage cupboard. Did you find anything cool while you were in there? I think Tucker said we could do with some more bullets. And, uh, snacks.”

Grif clears his throat. Behind him, Simmons twitches.

“I don’t know what you’re, uh. Talking about.” He says. “We just got lost. Didn’t we, Grif?” And Grif nods along, too, with a “Yeah, uh, it’s… really confusing in there,” and he does _not_ like the way the other two look at him.

“Don’t give me that knowing fucking _smile_ , Caboose.” he says. “Like you _know_ shit.”

“I know enough.” Caboose shrugs. “I am an adult.” And Grif almost, _almost_ , wants to bring up the Guide To Making Friends again, but he doesn’t, just stares as Caboose goes back to Donut and the two of them start having some kind of low volume conversation that Grif _really_ does not like the sound of. Behind him, Simmons lets out a little embarrassed sound, and… well, if they’ve been outed, at least there’d be no harm in wrapping his arms around the guy and pulling him in for a comforting armour hug.

For the brief moment of peace, until Grif just _has_ to hear that familiar voice again.

“Well, I didn’t find Grif and Simmons, so lord knows what they’re doing! But I’m sure we all put money on that years ago! I did find Tucker, and Agent Washington, and, uh. I think we’d better let them keep to themselves. And, uh, all the other ladies. I’m not too sure where they came from, but--” And Sarge looks at Grif, and Grif looks at Sarge, and Sarge looks at Simmons, cuddled up tightly against his chest, and if they had their helmets off, right now, Sarge would be grinning, shit-eatingly, and Grif would be punching it right off his face.  
  
“Oh, you survived! What a darn shame.” More to Grif than to Simmons, presumably. “It’s a pretty old building! Thought for sure you’d be caught out by falling rocks or something! Ah well. Guess I’ll have to savour that victory another day.”

It’s far too constant and unceasing to be banter, at this point, Grif thinks bitterly, and wraps his arms around Simmons tighter.  
  
“You’re the only person who’s saved this entire lousy day.” He mumbles, quietly, against where Simmons’ ears or sound transmitters or whatever would be. The side of his helmet, anyway. “I hope you know that.”  
  
“Always happy to help.” It’s quiet, sardonic, but Grif chuckles, anyway, tugs Simmons a little closer, and lets his helmet rest against Simmons’ in lieu of the ability to kiss.  
  
“You did.” He says. “You really did.”

**Author's Note:**

> leave ur firey torches at the door thank u


End file.
